Doctor Who: The Cosmic Conundrum
by George Lucas Official
Summary: Past, present and future collide as The eleventh doctor and Amy attempt to save Gallifrey from an army weeping angels, while the eleventh doctor from the future and Clara attempt to piece together a mystery in 1950's Nevada. A timey-wimey adventure rich with twists and turns.


Da dananana da dananana da dananana da dananana da dananana da dananana da dananana da danana WEEEEEWOOOOOOO WEEEE-E-E-EEEEEE WOOOOOOOO, WEEE WEE WOOO WOO WOOOOOOO WOOO WOOOOOOOOO

"Geronimo!" Shrieked the Doctor as he slid down the stairs in his TARDIS. "AMY! WHERE ARE YOU?"

"Right here, Doc." replied a voice from the stairs. There stood an incredibly scottish Amy Pond, decked out in clothes and a scarf. The Doctor clapped his hands together and motioned her to come forward.

"Amy, love, we just received a distress call from Gallifrey! An army of Weeping Angels are taking over the capital!"

Amy put her hands to her mouth in horror.

"That's...that's awful, Doctor! What do we do?"

The Doctor threw on his trademark fez and held his sonic screwdriver at his side.

"We fuck them."

Amy smiled a smile. Only her Doctor could say something that witty.

They both hurried over to the main console. The Doctor flipped some switches and turned some funny knobs, and before they knew it, they were off.

Some time later the Doctor and Amy arrived at Gallifrey's capital, Arcadia. It's spherical dome was cracked right down the middle from a group of Weeping Angels buttfucking their way through! The Doctor growled and hasted forward, Amy hot on his heels.

He sonicked his way up into the air before crashing down in the middle of the weeping angels.

"AMY, whatever you do DO NOT BLINK! They can move fast if you don't look at them!"

Amy nodded and forcibly held her eyes open which immediately began to water.

Meanwhile… in the future/ past

"Who?" Inquired a furtive Clara, earnestly searching her saviour's face for any sign or recognition. The tall, largely-foreheaded man standing in front of the damsel in distress bequeathed upon her a luxurious eyebrow wiggle, complete with a wink to match.

"Doctor!" he shouted into the night sky deep within the Mojave desert. He raised his arms in brutal triumph, kicking his legs out in an oddly spasmodic fashion. Clara lay exactly where she was found: within a busted down refrigerator thrown on its side. She had considered her life over and done for, to be dried up under the cruel and unforgiving cosmic rays, when the Doctor had flown by to save the day. He was decked in a purple checkered raincoat, a pair of Adidas Sambas, and a curious Nazi Party pin attached proudly on the front of his smock coat.

"Come on then, you ol' bitch!" The Doctor commanded in ethereal tones. Clara was still a tad disorientated. She had no recollection of the previous night, having been stoned out of her mind at the Las Vegas strip not 40 miles away from where she had woken up, half naked and soot covered within a grimy old fridge.

"Doctor, what exactly happened?" Clara asked with modest humility. She knew her place in the Doctor's unforgiving hierarchy. She lowered her eyes respectfully as the Doctor blessed her with an answer.

"That is for me to know, and for _you_ to find out!" He wagged a finger knowingly at a still confused Clara. However, she dare not push for more information quite so soon. She knew how...temperamental he could become under stress.

Obediently, she raised herself to her full and considerable height of six foot five, and began following the alien towards his out-of-this-world time box, the TARDIS. Clara scraped her head off the top of the doorway and stepped inside. However, not everything is as it seems. The main control room, once a clean and pristine snapshot of luxury that any interior designer would cream their little khakis over, was now littered head to toe in what looked like slightly damp pieces of tissue paper, as well as, however strange, crumpled up infant diapers.

Clara took in this startling change of scenery with a stoic glance. However, on the inside, her mind began to work into overdrive. _Stay calm_, she told herself, _it's not what you- _

"Everything all right, darling?" The Doctor asked softly, his eyes full of righteous concern.

"Doctor, it's just that...the TARDIS-"

"And what about my TARDIS, _dear?" _

The Doctor's voice had dropped a dozen octaves. Something was clearly wrong. A flash of red stole into his eyes before his expression regained his usual composure of someone who recently ate catfish surprise at Lucky Jim's Lighthouse Tavern For The Disabled Irish.

"I'm sorry, Clara, I didn't mean to frighten you. It's just that, you've got a stain of bleak butterwood spice on your blouse."

And so she had. It was a matter of education to see who reacted first. The Doctor? Or Clara herself. With a heave and a stroke full of courage Clara looked down, just brief enough to notice the blemish on her otherwise spotless piece of clothing. It was all true.

"Now now, let's not get hasty here, shall we?" the Doctor cried out in trembling fear. He backed away feverishly from Clara who, with each passing second, began to grow taller and taller within the TARDIS.

"DOCKY!" She shrieked as her head bumped the top of the seemingly never ending ceiling. But it didn't stop there. Her body contorted, twisted, and the sound of her snapping neck was enough to wake the neighbors. Bones jutted out from pale, mesmerized flesh sitting still in the candlelight of their third romantic date. A star aligned just close enough to draw a purple blot of creativity in the vastness of space. With the sound of roughly twelve million nuclear explosions, the waitress floated over bearing their food.

"And some milk to go with your cookies?" the waitress sang in a sweet song voice while flexing and twisting her titties bursting forth with the white beverage. The Doctor inhaled deeply with his hairy nostrils, drinking in every bit of spotty flavour he could muster. A crooked tooth made it way down into his drinking cup where the rabbit, yes, the rabbit, performed a magic handstand in view of two other spectators: The Bull, and Henry.

"Ruff Stuppy Stup!" A pale enigma of wretched undergrowth had accumulated so bad that for the next seven hours, no one could do anything, but, talk.

At long last the walls seemed to conspired against one another, which eventually, though not totally, led to an all out invasion instigated by yours truly. As each handle joined a secessionist movement within the House of Commons, George Orwell discovered that, once upon a time, he was Afro-American, and a hell of a lot of maple syrup to accompany his decision.

to be continued?


End file.
